


long con

by wild_once



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wild_once/pseuds/wild_once
Summary: ‘Hard to keep still these days, pet. Seems we’re always world’s apart.’
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 169





	long con

The first time they fuck is in a hotel room in Liverpool. Arthur’s sprawled on his front over a desk and getting absolutely terrorised by Eames’ cock. He presses a palm to the window in front of him, condensation fanning around his fingertips as they slip and squeak down the glass. Through his sweat-soaked fringe, Arthur gazes at the drunks and revellers shuffling down the street and wonders if they can see him open-mouthed and sweating as Eames digs his fingers into his hips and squeezes the skin. 

'Are you alright, darling?' Eames stops pounding and leans in close. In all the years they’ve known each other, Eames has never asked with such sincerity. His breath tickles Arthur’s ear and Arthur turns away to rub his cheek against the slick wood underneath him. 

'Fine,' Arthur replies evenly, and then, 'just wondering when you’re going to put your back into it and make me come.'

Eames rears back and growls. Grabs Arthur’s right leg under the knee and wrenches it up so he can fuck him deeper and harder. 

Arthur _squawks_ and then he’s laughing and gasping _oh god right there don’t stop_. It doesn’t take long for him to come after that. Eames pulls his hair and fucks him through every ripple until Arthur’s laughing maniacally and begging him to stop. Eames pulls out, pulls the condom off with a snap and shoots all over Arthur’s lower back. 

Eames catches his breath and smears his come around Arthur’s skin. Slaps his arse and grabs the meat of it. His voice a broken rumble when he says, ‘stay’ and heads to the bathroom. 

After Eames has cleaned them both up he orders room service and a bottle of champagne. He pours it carefully and hands a crystal flute to Arthur. 

'A toast,' he says with a cheeky grin, 'to finally making you laugh.' Eames swallows it down in one before saying, 'I’d love to make you do it again.'

+

Four months later they meet on a job in Tokyo. It’s a short one, just three days, and Arthur’s looking forward to his three-Michelin star sushi dinner once he slams the PASIV shut for the final time. 

Arthur ends up working and sleeping in the warehouse for the duration. Eames has his own problems and they barely have time to talk about anything other than the job. 

But as sure as the wind blows, the job ends. Arthur is exhausted; dinner feels like it might be a stretch too far and if he slams the PASIV case a little harder than the manual advises, well, no one else has noticed but him.

Except for Eames, of course.

'You look as terrible as I feel,' Eames says gently. 'Come on, I booked a room with a jacuzzi. We can have a soak and then have dinner.

He takes Arthur back to his room and they laze in the jacuzzi until they’re flushed and boneless. Afterwards, Eames fucks him gently over the side of his bed. He presses Arthur down into the mattress and lifts his leg at the knee just enough to nudge against that spot deep inside Arthur, the one that he remembers makes him moan and gasp for air within seconds. 

They sleep through dinner. 

It’s five a.m. when Arthur slips out. He asks the desk to send Eames up a pot of their strongest coffee and sends Eames a message from the taxi - _Flight to catch. See you another time._

+

Months go by without a sighting of one another.

There’s the occasional message on one of several burner phones, but their flights, and in one profoundly bizarre case, cargo ships, are always too early or late. 

_You still owe me dinner,_ Arthur messages in August.

He receives a reply mid-September - _sorry fell down a well (long story) but ok & looks still intacked. dinner soon promise !!! see u soon dimples _

Arthur absolutely does _not_ smile at Eames’ reply, nor does he keep the burner it came through on in the inside pocket of his favourite jacket until they next meet.

+

Their paths cross in Boston sometime in November. There’s a changeover on a job, and they manage to meet at the info desk at Logan International before Eames’ flight to Vienna. 

‘Coffee?’ Eames asks, eyeing Cobb who is preoccupied with talking to Phillipa on the phone.

Arthur nods as Cobb clamps his palm over his phone and says, ‘Sorry, Eames. Kids. I’ll catch up with you another time.’ He disappears into a sea of arrivals, and Arthur shakes his head.

‘He’s a space cadet these days,’ Arthur says as they walk to a cafe kiosk. ‘Mal’s… not herself.’

Eames is about to open a line of questioning but Arthur darts away to order. 

‘It’s been a while,’ Arthur says when he returns. He blows the steam from his airport coffee and sets it down. 

‘Hard to keep still these days, pet. Seems we’re always world’s apart.’

‘Yeah.’ Arthur sips his coffee. ‘Plans for Christmas?’

‘Not sure yet. Might head home.’ Eames dumps four sachets of sugar into his cappuccino and sees Arthur’s face scrunch in disdain.

The words that have been living and growing inside of Arthur for longer than he realised suddenly rush out all at once. ‘I’m heading home for Thanksgiving,’ he blurts. ‘ I miss my family and… I know it’s selfish and I fucking hate myself for saying it but I can’t be around Mal right now.’

Eames slides his hands across the table and reaches for Arthur’s. Knots their fingers together.

‘What?’ Arthur asks. ‘Is it so hard to believe that my family likes me?’

Eames has always considered airports neutral emotional ground; a place where all thoughts and feelings, no matter how melodramatic, can be excused with a goodbye hug and solemn wave in the distance. Perhaps this is why, very tenderly, he says, ‘You’re not selfish, Arthur,’ and leans in to brush a kiss against the tight line of his lips. 

+

March. Eames calls Arthur at three a.m. His voice is tense and heavy and every next word is _fucking_ and _idiot_ and that’s how Arthur’s day starts in New York and ends in Dublin. 

'You could have just asked to see me, you know,' Arthur teases when he meets Eames in arrivals.

Eames takes Arthur’s bag and slings it over his shoulder. 'Where’s the fun in that? No really, darling, this job has absolutely gone down the tubes. I really do need your help.'

The job _is_ a mess. The safehouse is a mess. The team… well, the less said about them the better. 

'What were you thinking, Eames? They’re a bunch of fucking amateurs.'

'I know,' Eames replies.

'If we’re going to pull this off I need you less resigned to failure.' Arthur’s been pulling his hair out for days. Burning plans in trash cans. He’s done in. He slams his palm down on the desk and yells, ‘Hello? Are you listening to me?’ 

Eames jumps. Takes a breath. Straightens his spine.

It’s then that Ben chooses to saunter in. Ben, the completely useless son of a millionaire prone to flights of fancy and blackmailing his nannies.

‘Eames says you’re the best at what you do,’ Ben drawls. He pulls his coat and scarf off and tosses them aside.

‘Then you don’t need my confirmation.’

‘I’m yet to be convinced. Perhaps you should put your head down and spend less time flirting with my _acteur_.’

Eames is on Ben in a flash, bobbing around in his space to catch his eye. 'Hey, hey - look at me - yeah?' Ben purses his lips and crosses his arms. Eames leans in and drops his voice to barely a whisper. 'Talk to him like that again and we’ll leave you high and dry.'

'Whatever,' Ben scoffs and creeps off. 

Arthur heard it all, of course. 'It’ll take a lot more than one uppity prick to damage my reputation, Eames.'

Eames turns to him and simply says, 'I know.'

'Take a walk, ok?'

Four hours later Eames knocks on Arthur’s hotel room door bearing a case of frosty beer and a box of ice-cold sushi. 

‘Sorry we missed dinner last time,’ he says smoothly and glides into the room as if he’d been there all along.

Their dinner isn’t silent but it’s close enough. Arthur pops open another beer for Eames and holds it out for him. Then, in what might be considered an uncharacteristic display of openness, says - ‘I have an apartment near Saint-Tropez and nowhere to be after this job wraps.’

‘Me either,’ Eames replies.

Arthur pops another maki roll in his mouth and smiles. God Eames loves that smile. 

+

They don’t talk about Saint-Tropez. The nights spent in wine bars and kissing against dusty buildings belong to the memories of two people - neither of them called Arthur nor Eames.

+

Mal dies on a Friday night. Arthur doesn’t have to call Eames - he’s already there, in Arthur’s _honest_ home, by Saturday evening. He greets Eames at the door, doesn’t question how he knows where he lives and Eames doesn’t question why Arthur sets him up in the guest room, or why he doesn’t cry or move through the stages of grief like all the books he’s read said he should.

It takes weeks for officials to release her body and Eames flutters about the whole time as he tries, and often fails, to make himself useful. He and Arthur barely speak. Eames buys second-hand books from street markets and gets lost in their pages; the worlds that exist in books hold a quality that dreams can never match, and Eames is grateful for the safe haven.

Cobb’s done a runner: what else could he do after Arthur masterminded his escape so effortlessly, and somehow Arthur’s left to arrange Mal’s funeral. Miles can’t bring himself to do it, what with the children and all, but the truth is Arthur doesn’t know shit about flower arrangements or finger sandwiches and he doesn’t have the patience to explain to Mal’s relatives why she wanted to be cremated and not buried. 

But Eames has enough patience for the both of them, and Arthur thanks him with a nod every time he picks up a loose end.

‘I need you to be a pallbearer,’ Arthur says matter-of-factly the morning of the funeral. He’s struggling with his tie and ready to spit nails. ‘Mal’s cousin missed his flight. I told him not to come the night before but he knew best, so… Anyway, you’re shorter than others; I’ll need to put you-’ he rips the knot away with a _fuck!_ and starts again. ‘You’ll need to go up at the front.’ 

Eames has never carried a casket - he doesn’t have the shoulders for it - but he silently accepts the command before moving to pilfer the tie from Arthur’s fingers. Turns him and loops it around his neck. ‘You look like you did the first time we met.’

‘What - like a teenager wearing his dad’s suit?’

‘No, darling.’ Eames loops the knot and pulls at the fabric. ‘Lovely. Brave. Ready for anything.’ He tightens the knot at Arthur’s throat and folds his collar down.

Arthur’s a rabbit in headlights when he says, ‘Ok. Thanks,’ and bolts from the room. 

Arthur gets spectacularly drunk at the wake. Eames has to carry him from the taxi to his front door and then to the ensuite to launch his guts into the toilet bowl. 

He strips Arthur down and puts him to bed with a tall glass of water and two aspirin. Makes sure he’s still breathing before he rolls him onto his side. Eames smooths the hair back from his face and tells him to sleep. 

Arthur’s face crumples and his bottom lip starts to tremble. ‘I… I... ‘ and Arthur can’t breathe. Eames kneels beside him and rubs his back. ‘I didn’t,’ he sobs, ‘I didn’t brush my teeth.’

Under different circumstances, Eames would have chuckled and teased Arthur about this for months. Instead, he rushes to the bathroom and grabs some mouthwash and a cup. Sits Arthur up and has him swish the liquid as best he can. Arthur spits in the cup and lies back down. 

Arthur spits in the cup and lies back down and asks, very quietly - ‘Please stay with me tonight. No funny business, just, please? I won’t throw up on you.’

‘Ok, pet,’ Eames whispers, and he’s helpless. He undresses out of sight and slides in next to Arthur who starts to sob and shake. Eames gathers him up in his arms and says nothing.

+

A few weeks later Arthur’s sweaty thighs are slipping off of Eames’ ribs. Eames fucks him like he means it, with teeth and nails and deep, powerful thrusts that render Arthur unable to do anything but hold on. Arthur is wide-eyed, pushing himself down on Eames’ cock, shivering and freezing-hot and caught between crying and coming.

Eames is leaving tomorrow, bound for a long con in Marrakech, and all Arthur wants to do is tell him he’s not allowed to go. Their toothbrushes are sitting side-by-side in Arthur’s - _their_ \- ensuite and it was a task to separate their socks when Eames packed his suitcase. 

‘Do you think you can? Like this?’ Eames asks, pounding into him. He sits up on his knees and spreads Arthur’s legs wide either side. ‘I think you can; god, you’re so lovely.’ 

Arthur looks at the man above him. Watches how his hair falls into his eyes with every thrust. How his tongue darts out to lick at lips and his uneven teeth. How his stomach, softer than usual after a few months of reading on the couch and eating breakfast in bed, tenses with every thrust. 

But then Eames is very still. Arthur furrows his brow and screws his eyes shut. He tries to hide his face in the pillow, but Eames is there, fingers softly gripping his jaw to turn his head. ‘What is it? Am I hurting you?’

Arthur keeps his eyes shut tight and Eames strokes the hair from his sweaty forehead. 

‘What am I going to do with all the books you’ve bought?’ Arthur asks, bewildered.

‘What?’

‘They’re all piled up next to the couch and I don’t want to ship them to fucking Morocco or Kenya or wherever the fuck you live.’

Eames pulls out of Arthur gently and reaches across him to turn the bedside lamp on. Arthur thinks Eames should look comical with his face so soft and earnest, and his cock so blood-red and wet... but he just looks tired. 

‘I don’t have room for them,’ Arthur says quietly, ‘and I can’t get rid of them, either. Ok?’

Eames drops back on his haunches and crosses his arms. ‘Firstly, _Lawrence Dalton_ lives in Kenya; I live where the job requires me to and nowhere else. Secondly, I’m taking this job because it’s a small price to pay for…’ Eames falters, scrubs his face. ‘Look, what I’m trying to say is that it’ll pay for a few more quiet years of lazing about on your sofa reading all those books I bought. If you want me lazing about on your sofa, that is.’

Arthur just lies there in stunned silence. He reaches up to cup Eames’ face with both hands and says, ‘Lawrence Dalton? Really?’ 

+

Four months into the Marrakech job, Eames gets a call from Arthur.

‘Can you get to Mombasa by tomorrow?’

Eames is on his mobile in the middle of the medina, so he’ll have to be forgiven if he yells _what!_ a little louder than strictly necessary.

‘Cobb’s coming to see you. I thought if I told him you were in Mombasa he might lay off but, no… he’s coming.’

Eames studies one of his marks from afar. Notes how his wife holds her shoulders and nervously tugs at her sunhat. ‘Arthur, I’m so close…”

‘I know,’ Arthur says sharply, ‘but let me put it this way: if you take the job he’s offering neither of us will ever have to work again. And I mean _ever._ I could give my share to a dog shelter and we’d still have enough for three lifetimes.’

Silence grips the line.

‘Unless three lifetimes is too long?’

Eames turns his smile away from the crowd. ‘Not long enough, darling.’

‘That’s what I thought. One more thing,’ Arthur says quickly - _too_ quickly - “I haven’t told him about our… situation. I want to keep it that way until we’re home free, ok?’

‘I’ll see you soon,’ Eames promises and drops the call. 

**Author's Note:**

> happy (almost) 10th anniversary to the greatest ship to ever set sail.


End file.
